Blind Spot
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: **Chapter 4 NOW UP** AU. When Seattle PI George O'Malley finds out that his card was in a dead stranger's jacket, he wants to know the connection between himself and the victim, but soon discovers that there's an even more sinister plot unfolding right before his eyes. (Will showcase many GA characters in different roles.) Rated M. Read. Review. Share with friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Friday morning. I snapped awake. My chest jerked upward, and my head went with it, like somebody had put a million volts through me.

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, and it took a moment or two of deep breaths for me to slow it. I scrambled through my immediate memories, trying to figure out what woke me. Was it the alarm clock? Did I set it to ring too early?

No. It was on the night table, ticking away the seconds. The hands indicated that it was just after 7:15 a.m., and wasn't scheduled to go to work until 9.

So was it a knock on my door? A phone ring? Maybe ... but probably not. People who knew me or needed my services didn't tend to reach out that early.

My eyes pulled focus and I scanned my tiny bedroom from floor to ceiling and corner to corner. Nothing to see. I had an inclination to put my head back down on the pillow, but I knew it was a pointless move. I wasn't getting back to sleep now.

I rolled off the creaky double bed that I'd settled against a windowless wall and headed to the barely-three-quarter bathroom in the back of my apartment for something that could be called a shower, but only by the most charitable folks. As I stripped out of the shirt and slacks I'd slept in, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The late nights following tomcatting husbands or gold-digging wives or some variation on the theme were catching up to me. I yawned, and noticed that the steam from the shower stall did a fair job obscuring my exhausted eyes.

But not that fair. "You look like a damn fugitive from an undertaker's workshop, George O'Malley," I muttered. A yawn rolled through me as I turned toward the hissing water and stepped through the curtain.

The hot water – what there was of it – did a decent job clearing the clouds from my brain. I finished dressing for the day, feeling a rumble of hunger in my belly. A vision of crisp bacon and sunny-side-up eggs on a clean white plate drifted past, making the rumble more insistent.

To tell the truth, I was in no rush to open up my office this morning; nothing of any urgency was waiting for me there. I glanced at the closed door of the closet that I'd converted to a makeshift darkroom. The pictures I'd taken of Mr. Don Keller (or "Seattle's DeSoto King," as he liked to call himself) and the woman who was certainly not Mrs. Keller – even though she'd been listed as such on the Seaview Motel registry – romping on that mattress last night were going to be just as helpful to his wife's attorney (and profitable to me) tomorrow as they would be today.

So I decided that I had the day off. I looked in the mirror again, and told the guy looking back at me to watch the fort. He said it right back to me, the wiseass.

* * *

"You want butter or jam for your toast?" the tired-eyed waitress at Eddie's Diner asked, in that flat, bored tone she and ninety-five percent of her counterparts always seemed to have.

"Jam. Strawberry, if you've got it," I replied.

"Yeah, okay," she said absently, scribbling on her order pad as she sauntered away from my perch at the counter.

I grabbed the coffee mug she had just topped off for me and took a sip as I watched her leg it through the kitchen's swinging doors. The coffee – strong and black and hot – hit my sweet spot, and for the blink of an eye, all was right with the world.

That sensation ended the instant I noticed the two plainclothes detectives plunking down at the stools flanking me. One was Lieutenant Derek Shepard, a rising star in the Seattle department, and my former mentor and partner on the force. He wasn't the one who was talking to me, though.

"Detective George O'Malley," the one on my right said with an unfriendly grin in his voice. I recognized it as Owen Hunt's, and my mood soured a little more. "I'm sorry. Ex-Detective." He overemphasized the "ex" part, like he enjoyed the sound of it. "How's the dirty picture racket these days?"

"Pretty damn good, actually," I replied, keeping my voice cheery. "People complain about divorce rates going up, but all I hear is a symphony of ringing cash registers."

"You're a creep," Hunt said. "A low-life, bottom-feeding creep."

Pots and kettles, I thought. "Hey, Detective Hunt, how's Marcie?"

His grin was gone but quick. "What?" he hissed.

"Marcie," I said. "That sweet little brown-eyed cookie you nibble on when you get even just a wee bit tired of playing the doting husband to Linda." I took another sip of coffee and looked at him over the rim of the cup. "Or should I say one of your cookies? I mean, Marcie knows she's not the only dessert you sample, right?" I asked, with a little wink.

Hunt grabbed my lapel and spun me to face him and his reddening cheeks. My coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup and splashed on the floor, somehow missing us both. "That's enough outta you, you piece of – "

"That's enough outta both of you," said the man behind me who clamped a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back from his partner's grasp. "This is a nice place with a nice atmosphere. No need to make it messy."

"Thanks, Lieutenant Shepard," I said, my eyes still on Hunt's. "You always did have a calming influence. So what do you and Detective Sweet Tooth want, other than to ruin my breakfast?"

Shepard turned me to face him. "You heard about the shootings behind the cleaners at 12th and Oak last night?"

"No," I said. "That's on the edge of Frank Vinatieri's territory, right?"

"Yeah," Shepard said. He nodded at Hunt, who pulled a rolled newspaper out of his jacket and slapped it on the counter. I turned my head just in time to watch his hands unfurl the black and white image of splayed, bullet-riddled bodies on a dank backstreet. "**THREE DEAD, ONE WOUNDED IN ALLEY SHOOT-OUT,**" the banner headline shouted.

"Word I'm hearing is that Frankie Vee's goons have been given marching orders to secure his territory, block-by-block, if necessary," Shepard continued. "Then seal it up water-tight."

"Or as water-tight as you can get in Seattle," I said. "So why talk to me? This is police business."

"God damn right," Hunt said with a hard frown.

"One of the dead men had your business card on him," Shepard said, pointing to the body in the left corner of the picture. "Ernest Maxwell. He had a California driver's license on him too, said he was out of San Francisco. Know that name?"

I quickly ransacked my brain, looking for it in as many nooks and crannies as I had. To admit, I wouldn't have said much if I did know the guy, but truth be told, the name Ernest Maxwell wasn't ringing any one of my bells, not even faintly. "I hand out my share of business cards, sure, but only to clients or sources, and only around Seattle proper," I said with a shrug. "And, since you probably already know, I'll cop to having done some snoop work in San Francisco, but it's been a year or two, at least."

Shepard sized me up. "So you're saying you've got nothing for me."

I looked him square in the eye. "Look, Derek, if there's one person I can't get away with lying to, it's you. And if I had any clue who this guy was, we wouldn't have gotten this far into the conversation anyway. Sorry, but I'm no good to you on this one," I said, just as my waitress was returning with my breakfast plate.

"Told ya, Shep," Hunt chuckled humorlessly. "Shiftless ex-detective sleazeballs like O'Malley here aren't worth wasting time spitting on, much less talking to, am I wrong?" He snatched a piece of toast off my plate and crunched into it, sneering at me all the while.

The urge to wipe that smug look off Hunt's face was becoming unbearable, but knowing that he was itching for the opportunity to slap the bracelets on me, I elected to avoid giving him that satisfaction. The corners of my mouth tugged upward as I spun away from the counter and pointed myself toward the door, grabbing the paper as I went.

Then, for some reason, as I sprang from the stool, the suddenness of my movement caught Hunt off-guard. His left loafer skidded through the spilled coffee on the tile and sent him face first into my bacon and eggs. He growled in frustration, pushed himself back to his feet and into a fighting pose, steam practically blasting from his ears. Shepard immediately stepped in front of his partner and growled something in a low voice to him. Hunt's nostrils flared and he glared at me, but his fists unballed, and his hands dropped to his sides.

"Take off, O'Malley," Shepard said. "Now."

"Thanks for buying – and eating – my breakfast, fellas. Don't forget to leave a nice tip for the waitress," I said, heading for the door. As I left, I took one last look at them – Hunt literally with egg all over his face, and Shepard's eyes pleading for me to leave. "And here I was thinking Hunt was more of a dessert guy," I added with a grin.

Could've sworn I heard Shepard laugh out loud at that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I headed back to the office, my blood still pumping from the exchange at the diner, and my mind flipping the name Ernest Maxwell over and over, like it was a magician's playing card and I was trying to figure out how he'd turned an ace of spades into a joker. Why would a stranger have my name and number in his pocket? Did I actually know him from that time in San Francisco? Was he a client there? A snitch? The photo in the paper didn't show much of his face, so maybe he was somebody I'd had contact with – but when? And why? As I realized I was about to reach the front door, I tugged the mailbox key from my pocket, the questions still bubbling.

"G'Morning, O'Malley," I heard from behind me, breaking my train of thought. It was Richard Webber, the owner of the barber shop on the first floor of the building.

"Hey, Richard," I replied. "How's business?"

"Slow," he groaned. "Like a lot of mornings."

"And the action?" I said with a knowing smile. Richard's shop was, once upon a time, his main source of income, but it now ran a fairly distant second to his backroom bookmaking operation. A neighborhood bookie like Richard could operate with relatively little interference – he wasn't a threat to the organized crime bosses or lawmen, mainly because he was small-time, with no inclination to grow. He steered big money bettors to big money operations, paid out to winners without a whine or welch, and if he had to collect from you, all he'd ask for (most of the time, anyway) was what you owed. A lot of people might have thought he was a sucker or a fool, but Richard Webber's ounce of integrity meant that he always had a pound of cash in his pockets – and sometimes closer to a ton, honestly – with plenty more where that came from.

So it sort of surprised me when he frowned at the question. "Dead," he said. "With a capital D."

I came down off the step toward him. "That's a surprise. Friday's usually your best day."

"Uh-huh. Until Frankie Vee decided to put down some dogs last night," Richard shuddered. "Talk about dead."

"I heard about that. Just talked to some cops about it, actually," I replied, going back up the step and opening my mailbox. Three envelopes today, only one of them with any potential. I pocketed all of them.

"You?" Richard asked. "What'd they want from you?"

"One of the men who was killed was carrying a business card of mine."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Guy's name was Maxwell. From San Francisco."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "You know him?"

I shook my head. "Never heard of him."

"I guess he was important enough to Frankie Vee to get killed." Richard cocked his head. "Want me to put an ear to the ground? For my usual rate, of course," he said with a sly grin.

"Of course," I replied, reflecting his expression. Then I dropped my eyes a little. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I could use the info," I said. "Just play it close to the vest."

"Hey, it's Frankie Vee we're talking about here," Richard muttered. "You know I don't want him suddenly caring about my presence."

"True. But there's also another party."

"Who?"

"My old partner on the police force – "

"Shepard?"

"Yeah, him. He's on this one. And his current partner, Owen Hunt."

The bracing chill of my tone caught in Richard's ear. "So he's no friend."

"Let's just say that if either of those two find me – or anybody I might know – snooping around their case, it won't end with us splitting a pitcher of beer," I said. "Frankie Vee might just be a more pleasant option, at least for me."

Richard nodded. "I'll take it easy." He started back to his shop. "Well, enough chit-chat. Time for me to get some work done."

"So you're – "

"Cutting hair. All day. And until further notice."

I rubbed the stubble on my cheek. "I'll take a shave."

He cast a mock-critical eye at me. "Damn right you will. Four o'clock."

* * *

I read the newspaper's story about the killings while cooling my heels at my desk. Besides Maxwell, the shootings had knocked off one of Vinatieri's men, a goon named Bobby DeLuca. The other dead guy was one Henry Burlington, also of San Francisco; I figured he was with Maxwell.

The lone survivor of the shootout was someone I recognized, though I couldn't say I knew him personally – Alex Karev.

Karev had been an on-the-rise middleweight boxer before shipping off to serve in Korea in spring of '51; decent hands, better-than-average power, good base and footwork. I remembered going with Richard to one of Karev's cash fights on the city club circuit the year before he went to war, how he took a lot of hard shots in the early rounds but kept coming back and coming back and coming back. A minute into the eighth, his left jab split open the bridge of the other boxer's nose, and that little whipcrack gave him the opening he needed to land a hard right cross that sent the other fighter to the canvas.

I remembered thinking as the ref raised Karev's hand in the air that night that he had a decent shot at some bigger fights, but it wasn't to be; he was drafted into the Army a month or so later. Fall of '52, I heard from Richard he was back in town, training at his old gym, even. But nobody showed an interest in giving him a fight, and he seemed to fall off the face of the earth.

Until last night, that is, I thought.

I dove back into the story, trying to glean a few more facts to work with – and found some. "Mr. Karev was transported to Seattle General Hospital, where he was treated and released," the newsprint declared, so matter-of-factly I could practically hear the police spokesman. That such a meaningless piece of information was being floated out there meant that the cops were likely going to be keeping an extra couple eyes on Karev for a while, see who his visitors were, if he started spending extra dough – or if he disappeared completely.

I knew more than a few people at Seattle General, and most of them even sort of liked me – as long as I had some spending cash I didn't mind parting with – so I decided it was worth the cab fare to see if I could get any details on Karev's brief stay. I slid open desk drawers until I finally found the tin petty cash box. I noticed underneath the box was my dad's old .45 pistol, still in its spotted and dried-up leather holster.

For a moment, I thought about the old man.

I remembered all the hell he gave my brothers and my mom and me when he was drinking.

I remembered the Christmas morning he showed up in a full-on Santa Claus suit, giggling like a little kid as he showed all of us boys the brand new bikes he'd stayed up all night building.

I remembered the Lucky Strikes he used to chain from the moment he woke up to the moment he laid his head on the pillow.

And then, right on cue, I remembered the night my mom and his partner woke us up to tell us he wasn't coming home.

The last of the thoughts was threatening my mood, so I pushed them all – good and bad – out of my mind. I had somewhere to go.

As I made a quick count of fives and tens to take along, I considered taking the piece too. I decided against it; after all, I wasn't likely to run across a desperate need for having it. Plus all it would take was one nervous security guard or nurse at the hospital dropping a dime to the cops, and then I'd have Shepard – or worse, Hunt – to deal with. Having a pistol on my person would give either one of them a reason to wonder what I was up to, and they could haul me in for whatever questioning they saw fit. It wasn't worth the risk.

Besides, I wasn't sure if it'd spit bullets or bust into dust, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Seattle General was one of the city's oldest hospitals, built in the late 1890s, but it always looked like a stiff breeze would topple the structure, regardless of how much brick and concrete made up its exterior. Nothing inside the building was built to last, either; to put it plainly: I wouldn't have gone there for a scrap of tissue to treat a shaving cut.

But I would – and frequently did – go there for a scrap of information to solve a case. The staff – be they medical, surgical or janitorial – had been overworked and underpaid since the privately-owned hospital's first day, or so it seemed, because they had little trouble spilling details about who was staying in which room and why, or leaving patient files in plain view of anyone who didn't mind opening their wallet a little.

Since Karev's visit was a very recent one, I was hopeful that today would mean I'd walk out with a few bucks left in my pocket. My mood lightened as I approached the reception desk, just behind the waiting area, because I recognized the young, fresh-faced nurse hunched behind the typewriter, hunting and pecking. "Hey, Nurse Neill," I said with a warm smile.

She stopped her one-finger typing and offered me her usual coy, playful grin. "George O'Malley," she purred.

That soft tone tickled my ears. "How's your day been, Maggie?" I asked.

"Better now," she said. "Where have you been hiding yourself, handsome?"

I chuckled. "Under a ton of work," I said. "And that's sort of why I'm here."

She pretended to pout. It only made her cuter. "So I guess I'm just a little speed bump for you, huh?"

I leaned forward on to the desk, resting on my forearms, bringing myself closer to her. "Is Benny here today?" I asked. "I'd like to see him."

"Really, huh? Benny?" Maggie stood up and met me halfway. "Am I not good enough for you?"

I had to smile, a bit surprised and pleased at her boldness. "Did I say that?"

Her closeness to me meant that I couldn't help but notice the soft, sweet scent of the soap she used to wash her strawberry blonde hair. I immediately thought about what a crime it was that she always had it to have it pulled back into a tight bun and hidden away under a cap. A few images of her, lathering up, floated through my mind.

"You want to see him?" she asked. "I'd like to see you."

More delightful boldness. Normally she and I would dance around each other, but today she'd actually taken the lead. I liked it. I'm not one of those fellows who prefers shrinking violets, anyway. I tilted my face a bit. "You busy tonight?"

"Maybe not," she replied. "You?"

"Maybe not," I said.

"Benny's on the fourth floor, cleaning out a patient's room," she replied, leaning her lips to a tantalizing distance from mine. "Room 405, I think."

"You're the best," I said, giving her a peck on the cheek and feeling her skin flush a bit underneath it. "Pick you up at 7," I whispered in her ear, just before I hit the stairs. "And put on your best dress. I'll take you someplace nice."

* * *

Benny was pushing his cart down the fourth-floor hallway by the time I reached him, finished with whatever cleanup had been required in room 405. I showed up at his elbow before he reached the elevator. "Hey there, Benny," I said. "How's tricks?"

As soon as he caught a glimpse of me, he looked like a deer that was caught in the headlights of an oncoming Buick. "O'Malley," Benny replied in a hushed, unhappy tone. "You shouldn't be here."

"What?" I asked. "I come bringing sunshine and brightness. And cash." I held out a folded five-dollar bill. "I need some information about a guy who was a patient here, name of Alex Karev."

Benny, to my surprise, pushed my hand away without extracting the money. "I can't talk to you," Benny said.

I doubled the fives. "How about now?"

"No, dammit," he hissed, pushing the money away again. "Get lost."

I was becoming irritated at Benny's bristling. "What's your problem?"

His eyes met mine with a mixture of frustration and pleading. "I could lose my job just for talking to you, okay? So just – "

A hard, clear female voice appeared in my ear. "What's going on here, Rodriguez?"

Benny snapped to attention. "Nothing, ma'am," he said.

The voice wasn't impressed. "Uh-huh. Get down to the cafeteria right now and help Howard finish up with the floor. He's moving like molasses again."

"Yes, ma'am," Benny replied, not dropping his posture.

"What are you waiting for, a kiss on the cheek? Get going."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, spinning on a heel and quick-marching his cart down the hall.

I turned a little to my left and saw who Benny had been answering. It was a nurse I'd never laid eyes on before. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, but she radiated the steely toughness of the more-hardened platoon sergeants I'd had during my time in France and Italy back in '44 and '45. I felt myself snapping to attention, just like Benny had. "This is a hospital, not a social club," she said. "And visiting hours don't start until this afternoon. So unless you are a patient or staff member, you have absolutely no rhyme or reason to be standing here, George O'Malley."

The casual sharpness of her reply knocked me back a bit. That, and the total stranger in front of me knowing my name. "I'm sorry – " I started.

"Damn right you're sorry," she finished. "Beat it."

"Hold on. How do you know me?"

She looked me over with distaste. "Your reputation precedes you around here," she muttered. Her voice was so cold, I could've sworn I saw icicles hanging off the words. "Besides that, you walked into my hospital and tried to get someone here to be your snitch."

I did my best to fake a laugh. "Snitch? Benny? No. He's an old friend."

The charge nurse looked up at me, a huge – and hugely false – grin on her face. "Well, then, that doesn't change a damn thing!" she proclaimed cheerily. Then the grin disappeared and she growled, "Get out of my hospital, O'Malley. Get out or I'll have you thrown out."

I put my hands up in surrender, and said, "Fine, I'm going." I tried to sneak a glimpse at her name tag, but she seemed to look up at that very moment.

"Leering at my chest, O'Malley?" she glowered. "Bit of a deviant, I suppose? No wonder you got busted off the Seattle police force."

I blushed. And then I blushed at my blushing. "I just wanted to know the name of the person I'll be assigning to the top of my list of people to avoid from now on," I said, trying to keep from stammering.

"Miranda Bailey," she replied, as she spun on her heel and stalked away. "And make sure to include the entire staff of Seattle General," I heard her add. "Since you're making lists."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

I was in Richard's throat-cutting chair at 3:58 on the dot. He draped a clean hot towel on my face and let it rest there. "So Seattle General's out of bounds now," he said.

"Yeah," I groaned through the towel. "You know, there's a part of me that's glad to see that kind of professional attitude – "

"Who can't appreciate integrity?" Richard interjected, removing the towel and beginning to brush warm shave cream onto my cheeks and jaw.

"Yeah, right. But in my line of work, no news isn't good news." I shuddered. "And that Nurse Bailey. Between you and me, I dealt with Nazis who weren't as stone cold as she was."

Richard chuckled. "Put you in a foul mood, I guess?"

I matched his tone. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Well, then, maybe I have something that'll brighten your day."

I straightened up in the chair. "Tell me you found out something about Maxwell."

"Struck out on that so far, sorry to say, but I heard from a couple of my guys over at Alex Karev's gym." He finished with the brush and went for the straight razor, and started sharpening it against the leather strap. "Or what used to be his gym."

"Whoa, slow down," I said. "How'd you know I was looking into Karev?"

"I can add," he said with a little smile, jutting his thumb at the newspaper on his chair.

"Fair enough," I replied. "So what do you mean 'used to be his gym'?" That little crumb of a detail had made me rise a little from the chair. "What happened?"

Richard frowned at me. "Clam up so I don't slice your face to ribbons and I'll tell you."

I caught a glint off the surgical steel he was handling out of the corner of my eye. "You do have a way of making sense to me," I said, relaxing into the seat again.

"July of '52. Sergeant Alex Karev was in Tokyo on three-days leave from his Army unit, sort of as a reward from his commanding officer," Richard said, as he put the blade to my cheek and began to clear away the two days of growth.

"He was a sergeant?"

"Mm-hm. This was his second go-round in the Army. He served in France and Italy, too, probably around the same time you were over there."

"Except he probably didn't catch any shrapnel," I groaned.

"Boy," Richard said, in a semi-sinister tone, "you're about to catch a straight razor to your jugular if you don't clam up."

Again, the man just knew how to make sense.

"Anyway," Richard said, going back to work, "on his first night, he's touring the GI bars and whatnot with some of the other guys from his platoon, and – at one place or another – he started getting caught up in some not-so-friendly jawing with a couple of Marines, taller and broader fellas who were already three or four beers ahead."

"That's no good," I mumble.

"And it isn't gonna get better. One or two at a time out of Karev's group call it quits for the night at each stop. By the sixth or seventh place, he's all alone."

"I'm just gonna take a wild guess that this story doesn't end with ice cream sundaes," I said.

"Bingo," Richard said, pointing at me so I would know to stop talking long enough so he could finish shaving under my chin. "The Marines had been trailing him all night. They jump him, drag him into an alley and took him apart – broke his jaw, busted out his left eardrum, cracked a half-dozen of his ribs."

"Shit." It was the only word I could think to say.

"But that's not the worst part," Richard said.

"It's not," I said, a bit mystified.

"Not by a longshot." Richard let out a long breath. "You remember Jimmy Fitch?"

I had to flip the name over once or twice, and then it clicked. "He owns Karev's gym."

"Plus he has controlling interest in a bunch of others all over the country - New York, Atlantic City, Chicago, Philadelphia."

"I didn't know that."

"Neither did I. But he's got fighters everywhere, maybe the biggest stable in the U.S. today."

"And Karev was on that list."

"Until the poor bastard got home."

"Wait a minute. It was Fitch who cut him loose? Why?"

"He saw Karev's face."

I shook my head. "And he sent Karev to a doctor."

"To **his** doctor, even." Richard let out a sigh as he stepped into my line of sight, his face grim. "The thumping those Marines gave Karev led to a permanent blind spot on the outside of his right eye," he said, tapping a finger on my brow to illustrate where the man's vision had been lost. "It's not enough to keep him from walking down the street without a cane and a tin cup, but – "

"No doc with an interest in keeping his nose clean will clear him to fight." I shook my head, finally understanding Richard's expression. "Meaning he can't get a boxing license from the city or the state commissions."

"Yep." Richard studied my face, then motioned for me to lift my chin. "And since Karev had been one of Fitch's up-and-coming fighters, word spread fast and wide about him and his eye."

"Meaning he was pretty much worthless to Fitch or anybody else in the business," I said, feeling the blade clearing away the last stray hairs.

"Can't be in anybody's stable, can't have a cash fight at a club, hell, he can't even be some glass jaw's sparring partner," Richard said with a grimace. "Karev went from one of Fitch's golden boys to a never-was in the time it took for some drunk son of a bitch to land a sucker punch."

With one last stroke, Richard was done with my shave. He found another clean towel and wiped away the rest of the foam from my face. "_Voila._ Now you look somewhat presentable."

"Thanks. So how's he paying his bills?" I asked.

"Lots of part-time stuff," he replied, wetting his hands with aftershave, then putting the bracing alcohol on my face. I cringed a bit as the liquid bit into me. "Washing dishes, mopping floors, that sort of thing."

"Where?" I asked as the buzzing pain on my face faded.

Richard's grin was sudden and dazzling. He shook his head like he was trying to wipe it away, but it refused to depart.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," I said. "Where is he working?"

He looked like he knew he was giving me a present I didn't want, but couldn't possibly reject, and it was delighting him just a bit more than it should. "The Silver Swan," he said.

My heart simultaneously sank and soared, which felt as unusual as you'd imagine.

Richard noticed the look on my face. "Hey, maybe she won't be there when you go," he said, trying to curtail a boyish giggle.

"Yeah," I groaned. "And maybe I'll trip over a million bucks on the way."

* * *

I headed back to the office, trying to plot my next move. Finding out where I might locate Karev had scrambled my evening's priorities a bit. Sure, I'd promised Maggie a date tonight, but I didn't want to miss an opportunity to talk to Karev, if only to find out what he was doing in the middle of that back alley bloodbath. Maybe he was involved, maybe he was just a bystander who happened to catch a bullet. I wouldn't know until I had a chance to ask.

I grabbed the newspaper again and flipped pages until I found the ads for the nightclubs. The Silver Swan's was the biggest one in the newsprint.

**TONIGHT! ONE NIGHT ONLY! **

**_An exclusive evening with _**

**_Seaside Records recording artist Nina Rogers _**

**_and the Silver Swan Orchestra!_**

A strange sense of relief rolled through me. I could take Maggie along, mix business with pleasure, and not worry about crossing any paths I didn't want to disturb. I hadn't walked through the Swan's gates in a while, anyway, and to be honest, I missed it. Not a lot, sure, but enough.

I took off my jacket and noticed the envelopes still in the inside pocket. I pulled them out and glanced at them. The thick one on top was the electric bill, the thin one in the middle was a bank check from a client who owed me a couple extra bucks for overtime on a snoop job. The last one, however, I'd somehow managed to overlook completely. No stamp on it, no return address. Some detective, I mused.

I was about to slip my finger under the seal when my desk phone jangled. I dropped the envelope and pulled up the receiver. "O'Malley," I said, somewhat distracted.

"First ring," a woman's voice answered. "Sitting by the phone and waiting for my call, yes?"

My distraction disappeared as I recognized the voice, throaty and haughty and cool. It belonged to one woman and one woman only. "Miss Yang," I said. "How's your empire?"

"Thriving," she replied. "And I trust you're on your best behavior." I could almost see that sly little smirk in her voice forming before my eyes, and I couldn't help but imagine her reclined on that ornate fainting couch in her parlor where I'd first met her, wearing that red-and-black silk robe that flattered her legs quite nicely.

"Naturally," I said. "What can I do for you?"

The coolness stayed in her voice, but an all-business edge formed in it. "I take it Ernie Maxwell never caught up to you."

I felt myself frown and smile at the same time as another fact snapped into place. "So it was the queen of the San Francisco black market who gave him my card," I said. "And here I was wondering how he had gotten his mitts on it."

Her voice shrugged. "He was supposed to extend you a job offer from me."

"To do what?" I asked.

"Maxwell was a courier," she replied. "One of my best, actually. He was supposed to drop off a small package with my contact at the sea port."

"A package? Of what?"

I heard her chuckle a bit. "Carrots."

"How many?" I said with a smile.

"Enough to seal a deal I already have with the head of the dock workers' union there."

Naturally. It didn't take long to remember how far-reaching Yang's connections were - and had to be - if she wanted to keep her business going. "You told me about it once, right? They give your cargo twice-weekly, pre-arranged access - "

"And I pay them a fair price to make sure no one untoward makes off with it."

Untoward. A Yang word if I'd ever heard one. And she said it like she was enjoying the taste of the word on her tongue. I tried to force the image of her rising from that fainting couch, robe slipping open, out from between my ears. "So what was my part in your payoff plan?" I asked, trying to freeze my veins.

She dropped a little pout into her voice, which didn't help. "As a local face. A good, upstanding citizen of Seattle who'd vouch for me and my sincerity in wanting to make it a thrice-weekly thing for a reasonable bump."

"And I could swing a fist, if need be."

I could practically hear her shrug. The robe closed in my mind's eye. "That wasn't likely. Burlington was the man for that."

"You thought Maxwell needed muscle?"

"Sort of," she said. "Ernie Maxwell was getting a little gray at the temples, soft in the midsection. Burlington was young. Ambitious. Good with his fists, too, but green," I heard Yang say, like she was reading his character traits off a card, which - knowing her - wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. "When I threw out the chance to have someone partner up with Maxwell for this trip, Burlington volunteered."

"And now they're both dead."

"Unfortunately." She paused for a moment. "Now I'm on the hook. I had a deal in place, and until I heard about my guys this morning, I thought it was done. I had already cabled my suppliers in Hong Kong with the news that I'd be commissioning an additional cargo shipment every week starting next month."

"Which could certainly affect your carrot supply."

I could almost feel her smile. "Which brings me back to you."

"You want me to find you a killer."

"And a thief."

I straightened my jaw. "The case is a hot one. There are cops here working it who would rather toss me off a pier than help. I have one lead to follow, and maybe not for long. So my price is a hell of a lot higher that it would have been."

"Tell me."

"I want half of whatever was stolen. And that's non-negotiable."

It took her a moment to respond, but I could hear a thrum of excitement in her voice when she spoke. "Now this is a delicious turn," she said. "I wasn't prepared to offer anything near that, O'Malley."

"Take it or take your chances with somebody else."

She responded with a slow, rich laugh. "Okay. You've got a deal," she said. "But you have seven days to deliver, and not a second more. Otherwise, this is our last friendly phone call."

"I believe you," I said. "See you soon."

"You'd better," she replied. "I hate having to bury friends." And then the line went dead.


End file.
